


The Colors of Sunset (are Orange and Red)

by Fledgling



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Frottage, Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Scarf Kink, why am I not surprised that’s already a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledgling/pseuds/Fledgling
Summary: Cobb dreams of gloves, black leather palms and orange fingers.Din dreams of a scarf, soft and red against the desert.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 16
Kudos: 227





	The Colors of Sunset (are Orange and Red)

**Author's Note:**

> To the people in the discord: you’re all wonderful people and terrible enablers.

Cobb knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows—and yet he does it anyway. 

For him, it’s the gloves, the orange fingers haunting his dreams. He sees a near identical pair in Mos Eisley, missing the protective plate on the back but with the orange fingers, the black leather palms, and he’s walking out the store with them before he realizes it. He takes them home and hides them in a box under his bed. Takes them out a couple weeks later, tries them on. The leather creaks when he curls his hands into fists, and it sends a shiver over his skin. He takes them back off and puts them back in the box. 

Another few weeks and he digs them out again. Puts them on, let’s them drag over his skin. Traces his collarbone, his ribs. Rubs the pads of his thumbs over his nipples. One hand settles loose around his throat; the other skims down his stomach, nudges his cock. He wraps his hand around it and tugs, watching the orange fingers encircle his shaft through lidded eyes and imagines their Din’s. He cums shouting the man’s name. 

It becomes a habit: hide the gloves until he’s desperate enough to ignore the hot wash of shame over fantasizing about someone he actually knows, then pull them out and put them on. Let the leather warm from his body heat, trailing over his bare skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Wrap his fingers around himself and sink into thoughts of Din, Din,  _Din_.

Then one night it’s not enough—he should have known it was coming, nothing’s ever easy for him. He tugs and strokes and he’s close, so  close  but it’s not enough, and he’s scrambling for the lube, unable to think through the haze of heat and pleasure and fantasy. He works two soaked, lube-and-leather covered fingers into himself, nailing his prostate in the fifth thrust and howling as he cums. 

He’s doomed, and he knows it. 

Din knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows—and yet he does it anyway. 

For him, it’s the scarf, the red fabric stalking his thoughts. He finds one similar in a market on Nar Shaddaa, a shade darker and not quite as weather worn, and he’s buying it and stuffing it in his pack before he realizes it. He takes it back to his ship, and hides it in a locker beside his bunk. Takes it out a couple weeks later, tries it on. The fabric is soft and warm against his bare neck, and it sends a shiver over his skin. He takes it back off and puts it back in the box. 

Another few weeks and he digs it out again. Holds it in his fist, let’s it drag over his skin. Traces his hips, his thighs. Teases along the column of his throat. His hand rises to his face and pressed the scarf over his mouth, his nose; the other skims down his stomach, nudges his cock. He wraps his hand around it and tugs, watching his fingers encircle his shaft through lidded eyes. Buries his face into the scarf, breathes deep and imagines it’s Cobb’s. He cums shouting the man’s name. 

It becomes a habit. Hide the scarf until he’s desperate enough to ignore the hot wash of shame over fantasizing about someone he actually knows, then pull it out and tangle his fingers in it. Let the fabric warm from his body heat, trailing over his bare skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Wrap his fingers around himself and sink into thoughts of Cobb, Cobb,  _Cobb_.

Then one night it’s not enough—he should have known it was coming, nothing’s ever easy for him. He tugs and strokes and he’s close, so  close  but it’s not enough, and he’s panting as he switches hands, unable to think through the haze of heat and pleasure and fantasy. He wraps the scarf around his cock, squeezes his fist and admires the contrast of red fabric on tan skin, and keens as he cums. 

He’s doomed, and he knows it. 

It’s inevitable that they meet again. 

Cobb gets a message a couple hours before Din arrives. It’s the Mandalorian himself, asking to stay a week with the marshal while he waits for some business to be completed. Cobb grins, tells him he’s got a standing invitation to Cobb’s home whenever he’d like to use it, hopes he doesn’t come across as too eager. 

The ship lands just outside of town, a sleek black and silver thing that from what Cobb can tell is armed to the teeth. Din steps down the ramp, silver armor and _black and orange gloves_ shining under the light of the twin suns setting. The sight of the gloves makes something thick clog Cobb’s throat, and he tugs his scarf down a bit out of reflex. Din’s visor tracks the movement, a barely noticeable tilt that Cobb notices and tucks away for later. 

Boba calls on Din to fetch an escaped slaver for him, someone who managed to slip through the new king’s ever-closing chokehold on Tatooine’s slave trade. It’s an easy bounty, and Din likes to think he and Boba are friends, so he takes it. He lands on Tatooine a few days later, wanted man frozen in carbonite. Boba thanks him, informs him he might have another job for him in a week, if he’d be interested. Offers Din a room in the palace in the meantime. It’s an offer Din declines, though he lets him no he has no plans on leaving Tatooine as he boards his ship. Misses the knowing look Boba sends his back. 

Mos Pelgo has grown in the time Din’s been gone. What hasn’t changed though is the man that comes out to greet him, silver hair and  _red scarf_ waving in the breeze. The sight of the scarf slams a wave of want through Din, and he clenches his hands into fists at his side. Notices that Cobb’s eyes track the movement, a barely there flick of the eyes that Din tracks and files away for later. 

They catch up in Cobb’s living room with a bottle of spotchka between them. Din takes his helmet off—and Cobb chokes on his drink, both in shock and  _shock_ because of all the faces Cobb imagined, none came close to the real thing, soft brown curls and softer brown eyes and soft, soft lips. They take turns recounting all the things that have happened since they parted, joyous and somber in turn. The amount of spotchka in the bottle gets lower as the moons climb higher, though neither of them mention it. The longer they speak, the more animated Din becomes, gesturing more and more with each story. Cobb follows the movements, the way his fingers curl as he pantomimes holding a weapon, the way the guards on the back of his gloves catch the light. Similarly, Cobb fiddles with his scarf as he listens, stroking the fabric, digging his fingers into it. Din notes each fold, each crease that gets made and unmade. 

Cobb isn’t sure what happens next, only that they’re meeting over the table, lips and tongues and teeth. Din moans into the kiss and Cobb echoes the sound. They separate, panting, and Cobb grins madly. 

“Bed.”

They make it to the bedroom eventually, making pit stops at the couch, the wall, the door. They can’t get enough, devouring each other with mouths and hands, until Din is shoving Cobb onto his own mattress. Cobb reaches for his scarf, starts to untie it when Din makes a wounded noise. He stops, takes in the mix of conflict and hunger on Din’s face. 

“Leave it on,” Din whispers as his cheeks flush red. 

Cobb grins, a sharp thing that’s mostly teeth, and lets his hands drop. 

“Alright. As long as you,” he points to Din’s hands on his still-clothed hips, “leave those on too.”

Din looks down at his gloves, and nods eagerly. 

Din takes a lot more undressing than Cobb, and so they start on him first. Beskar is stacked reverently on top of the dresser, cape and flightsuit thrown with much less care in that general direction. Cobb’s clothes follow, and he gasps as Din’s leather-clad hands flutter over his ribs, up his chest to rub teasing circles over his nipples. His back leaves the bed, and Din chuckles—Cobb captures the sound and locks it away in his memory forever. 

Din presses staccato kisses along Cobb’s cheek, down his jaw, and buries his face into Cobb’s scarf with a groan. Cobb hums, letting his hands trail over Din’s back, tracing scars and the ridges of his vertebrae. Din shifts above him, straddling his hips and lining up their cocks. He rolls languidly, dragging twin moans from their throats. 

“Cobb,” he pants into Cobb’s ear. 

“Yeah,” is all the answer Cobb has. 

They grind against each other, Din’s hands mapping Cobb’s torso, his face nuzzling into the scarf over Cobb’s throat. Cobb watches, watches the orange fingers trail across his skin, leaving fire in their wake. Listens to Din whine and sigh into his ear, lets his own groans fill the space in between. He fumbles blindly at the bedside table, finds the lube and presses it into Din’s hand. 

“Please,” he groans. 

Din nods, flicking the cap open with his thumb and drenching his leather-wrapped fingers in lube. He recaps the tube and tosses it aside, settling between Cobb’s hips and using his knees to spread his legs wide. Cobb watches the hand disappear between his legs and then there’s a finger at his entrance, pressing,  pressing . 

It’s a thousand times better than his own. 

Din’s fingers are thicker, his gloves softer, and Cobb grips the sheet under him as he moans. One quickly becomes two, Din’s other hand caressing his thighs, his stomach, his pelvis. Cobb catches it with his, draws it up to his face. Presses hot, mostly-tongue kisses to the wrist, the palm, each finger tip. Din’s fingers are still moving inside him, twisting and thrusting and driving him wild. But more importantly Din is  watching him, panting, and Cobb wraps his tongue around his index and middle fingers, draws them into his mouth. This he hadn’t thought to do on his own, but the desperate look Din is sending him drives him on. He sucks, enjoying the feel and taste of the leather more than he expected to. He lets the fingers pull back, Din rubbing them against Cobb’s bottom lip, smearing the saliva coating them there. Cobb catches his fingertips gently with his teeth, his hand gripping Din’s wrist as he pulls, the glove sliding off. He can feel Din’s pulse skyrocket under his thumb. Cobb tosses the glove aside and repeats what he did moments ago, nipping and kissing the soft skin of Din’s inner wrist, licking a broad stripe up his palm. Din whines and swipes his thumb along Cobb’s lower lip, then presses the pad of it to his tongue. Cobb’s going insane, his chest heaving, and then two fingers becomes three, finds his prostate and rubs, and his hips leave the bed. 

“Din!” he cries. 

Three becomes four, and Cobb throws his head back and screams as he cums. Din strokes him through it, eyes near black with arousal, and Cobb shudders and moans. Din only stops when Cobb presses a shaking hand to his chest and pushes weakly, and Cobb catches sight of the lube glistening on the leather. His cock twitches, and he groans. 

“C’mere,” Cobb pants, and Din crawls up his body, lying on top of him, bracing on his forearms. Cobb wiggles his arm down between them, finds Din’s cock and wraps his fingers around it. Din gasps, burying his face back into Cobb’s throat, into his scarf, his hips twitching. 

“Cobb,” he pants, “Cobb, I—”

“I’ve got you, darling.”

Din squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting into Cobb’s hand. Cobb twists his head enough to kiss his temple, buries his nose into soft brown curls. 

Din cums with a shudder and a keen, spilling between the two of them. Cobb returns the favor Din had dealt him, stroking until Din bites none too gently at his jaw. 

They don’t say anything for a long moment, panting together. Eventually Din rolls over, pulling his remaining lube-covered glove off. He examines it, and Cobb wonders what he’s thinking as his cheeks heat. 

“So,” Din says slowly. “You like my gloves then?”

“What can I say,” Cobb croaks. “They made an impression.”

Din hums, tossing the glove towards the rest of his clothes. Cobb unties his scarf, watching Din watch him. 

“I’m guessing you been havin’ a similar itch?”

Din casts his gaze to the ceiling, then back down to Cobb. 

“I guess so.”

Cobb chuckles, tossing his scarf and the other glove off the bed. He rolls onto his side facing Din, grinning in a way that is probably besotted but he can’t find it in him to care. 

“Well, you should know I’m more than happy to give you a hand scratching it any time you need.”

Din laughs, turning and scooting forward until their foreheads are pressed together. 

“You might be biting off more than you can chew, marshal,” he growls. “Space travel is often long and boring; I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d do if I ever got my hands on you.”

Cobb shivers, delighted. 

“You think out here among the dunes is any better? I’ve had my share of cold nights with nothing but thoughts of you to keep me company.”

Din hums, tilting his head and kissing Cobb, this time slow and sweet enough to make Cobb’s heart thunder. 

“I look forward to sharing my imagination with you then,” Din whispers against his lips. 

Cobb grins, taking Din’s bottom lip between his teeth. 

“What are we waiting for then?”


End file.
